When I touch your face with my fingersI put onto youall the grace and heaviness in which you, unreadyfor the morning light, wrap yourself while hiding from boats and shipsthat lurk from parks through the window.My mornings are different from yours asthe whiteness I'm telling you aboutI carried all night through the streets.Your mornings are far better. Without whiteness,without excessive movements, without anythingwe, drunk and dry from the night,could call happiness.

2.

And what if you are right when you watch meover your shoulderlike some small thing, something thatfades at every touch we make?I spoke to the things on the table, allthat was laid in front of us.

3.

I spoke: if I walk out my handthrough the glass in the room will whatI wanted to be quiet to you aboutstretchinto lips,lie on our bodies as a phantasm?

4.

I watch you lying, all snowyand full of silence. Where could wecast off fugacious as we are: youas dense whiteness, me as an eyeon your neck?